After wide-set earthen towers mask the highway runoff, campers come off lofty horses, signal boorishness to breeze. Sat alone where rolling orange will tease the peace from perfect dark - the hint of dread forgoing litness to expose a martial bode -
the low-slung limbs of stern bring trained to-wrist like faithful, catching glimpses of what common good afforded us naff hazes like the present sickle answer, whale-bone grief and prescient danger. Fix a poultice, love’s soft landing seldom not for treasures come. Revive the brazen lungs
in boasts of rushes, random-lit, forestalling sodden semblances of wit from Sunday’s arsenal - right-matched to cleaner absences than your limited souls could ever pare.
She’s felt - a fabric after our own hearts, a loan from common waltzes, taciturn in downshifts of this archen land - of course - of hand, a slight anomaly for watchers to observe. Each roadblock touches nerve.